


Sweeter than honey, Bitter as gall

by Bogbody



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Additional Relationships To Be Added Later, Additional characters to be added later, Canon-Typical Violence, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Dreams, F/M, Geralt yearns for connection the fic, Geralt yearns just in general, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Rating May Change, Suggestive Themes, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Winter, introspective Geralt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24232327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bogbody/pseuds/Bogbody
Summary: While wasting away his winter at Kaer Morhen, Geralt has a lot of time to think. He thinks about things past, things that could be and things that will never be. Set sometime after the djinn incident but before the dragon hunt.Alternative Title: Geralt Has a Big Fat Crush On Just About Everyone
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Boy am I nervous. I've been into Witcher since about 2015, back when the third game came out, I believe. I've played the games and read the books (though I remember very little of them ngl I'm not good at reading) and now I've seen the show, but this is somehow my first Witcher fic? Ok, me....  
> This fic is largely based on the Netflix timeline, while the characterization of the other witchers is obviously based more on the games (watch this become ooc when season two comes out). I'll try to keep this lore-friendly and as in character as I can manage. Hope you enjoy!

The snow has been solid on the ground for some three weeks now, two weeks earlier than it had been the year before, to Geralt's memory. Last when he was riding up the track to Kaer Morhen, the frost had just taken the last of the dying wildflowers; now they are lost beneath the snow. Roach whines and huffs as he guides her through icy waters and rocky cliffs, and Geralt murmurs to her sympathetically but keeps moving forward. It won't do them any good to stop now; Kaedweni winters are equally merciless to all creatures, mutant or no.

The path to the keep is treacherous at best, winding its way through the mountain range, threatening to throw a poor rider into the valley below. Many young witcher hopefuls have perished on the road. They sometimes find pieces of bone in the river, whatever the wildlife has left untouched. Slight bones, boys in their prime, abandoned to their fate. Destiny indeed, Geralt considers grimly as Roach's hooves knock a pebble loose, sending it flying down into the waters below.

It's to keep Kaer Morhen away from the eyes of humankind, a place where the secrets of the witchers can be kept safe. A poor plan, evidently, since the wall of the fortress is still in shambles from the sacking. Vesemir tries to repair the place, but every time one hole is fixed, another appears. What is one witcher to do against the passage of time? 

The sky above is turning darker, but the fort is already visible between the cliffs and trees. There is a pack of wolves in the hills; Geralt can hear their snarls and growls. Any other day he’d clean them up, but tonight he keeps riding. They have likely heard him too, but they seem equally uninterested in chasing him down. From one wolf to another, Geralt thinks. Jaskier could probably wax poetic about it for hours if given the opportunity.

The White River is already turning shallow, which means they are on the home stretch. Shallow water has its downsides, however. 

He can smell them before he hears or sees them; the stench of their permanently wet and slimy flesh permeates the air. Drowners, eyes bulging from their heads, pull themselves out of the river with ease and screech at him. Geralt pulls his sword from Roach’s saddlebag and brings her to a speedy gallop closer to the mountainside so they can’t grab at her hooves.

Two of them launch themselves at him, mouth open to reveal rows of sharp teeth. Roach whinnies but keeps her eyes on the target. Geralt brings his sword down right as one of them is about to sink its teeth into his calf. The sword slices through the drowner’s head with ease, releasing even more of the putrid smell. Geralt wrinkles his nose. They must eat rotting flesh, carcases that have washed up on the shores of the river, perhaps.

The other one goes for Roach’s hind, attempts to pierce her skin with its nails. She whinnies again, ears pinned back and delivers a kick right in the thing's left eye. It stumbles backwards, screeching in pain, and finally backs off with the rest of its kind. 

“Good girl,” Geralt murmurs. “You really showed them.”

Roach huffs.

“Probably got him with the nail of your shoe, huh? I told you that re-shoeing would come in handy.” 

They continue their journey northwards, to where the fortress rises above the treeline. Geralt spots Vesemir’s unmoving shape on the battlements. Even at this distance he can feel the old man tracking his every move like a hawk.

The portcullis stands open as he reaches it, though it is clearly putting a strain on the old mechanisms. Even without its wolf pack, Kaer Morhen is rarely quiet; the wind howls where it catches cracks and holes in the battlements, crows nest on the highest parts of the keep and the old drawbridge creaks and groans beneath Roach’s hooves. A human might not pay it much mind, but Geralt’s finely honed senses confirm what they all, including Vesemir, know to be true: the fortress is growing old, along with its inhabitants.

Eskel greets him at the gate, his twisted face turned to a smile. The scars pull up his lip to show a few more teeth than necessary, but Geralt still sees in him the little boy with spry legs and clever eyes who used to climb the walls of the keep with him when their instructors looked away.

Geralt pulls the reins and Roach comes to a graceful halt.

“Hello, Eskel.”

“Geralt. You smell like shit,” Eskel says, wrinkling his nose. He still pulls Geralt into a firm, if short-lived hug when he dismounts his mare.

“Had a run-in with some drowners. You know, monsters. The type a witcher usually gets rid of. Especially when they are close to his home.”

He gives Eskel a stony look, which is met with a grin.

“And you did.” 

Eskel guides him into the courtyard where he leaves Roach with a healthy amount of hay and water before entering the keep. The fireplace is bathing the high room in a warm light, and though the place has seen better days, it’s still much the way he left it.

“We’re still waiting for Lambert,” Eskel says and pours Geralt a glass of what must be old Mahakaman mead. It must have been standing around for a while because even the honey can’t mask the bitter sting.

“Are you sure he’s coming this winter?” Geralt says, swallowing the swill down with a grunt. “He wasn’t in the best of moods last time I saw him.”

“When is he?” Eskel scoffs. “He’s coming back. Unless the snowfall gets too heavy, I suppose.”  
  


They seat themselves at the rickety table that stands next to the fire. Eskel has cooked up what Geralt assumes is supposed to be a rabbit stew and gives him a healthy serving of it. Geralt eats it with stoic acceptance, but the glint in Eskel’s eyes tells him he knows exactly what Geralt thinks of his cooking. They sit in silence for a moment, listening to the cawing of the crows and the banging of hammer on wood from somewhere in the courtyard. Vesemir is still trying to repair the stables, he assumes. Stone keeps are rarely warm, though the heat of the fire is returning some feeling to his fingers. Geralt takes off his gloves discreetly to soak up more of the heat.

He watches Eskel between sips of his drink. They are the same age, despite Geralt’s hair aging him up a few decades at a distance. This close Geralt can see the fine lines on Eskel’s hands growing deeper, and the skin looks just a bit dryer. His eyes are still just as warm. He’s always been heftier than Geralt in build, with just slightly larger hands and arms, though no more or less strong; they are always neck and neck during training. 

He can feel Eskel watching him too, when he’s not looking. Geralt wonders what he sees now. Can he see the dozens of scars he’s amassed during the last few years? Does he still smell of Yennefer’s perfume? He looks into his drink. There it is, the constant thread pulling at him, like he should be somewhere else. He’s restless suddenly, like he needs to run and run and never turn back.

Eskel, a solid and stable rock in the sea that is life, looks at him still, eyes unblinking. Geralt realises that he’s tensed his shoulders and jaw. He tries to loosen up, brings a hand to rub his neck, trying to find some inner calm.

“C’mon,” Eskel says, finally. “You should get out of that armor and into a bath.”  
  


Geralt rises to follow him, hands warmer but feet still numb. He’s never been as stable as Eskel or as single-minded as Lambert. Vesemir told him, once, that his movements are there but his mind is in the clouds. He boils and bubbles beneath the surface, and he can never seem to get the words out, to find something to smother his thoughts with or to let them loose. There are a few things that help, he thinks as he strips down to his pants and shirt while Eskel boils some hot water for him. A night of heavy drinking, a really good fight to get his heart beating and his breath heavy or-. He turns to look at Eskel thoughtfully. 

He takes a few steps forward, as the man feeds more logs to the fire. Eskel stops mid-motion and looks back at Geralt, eyes flickering over him, calculating and clever. Something in his look betrays him, because Eskel laughs and turns back towards the fire.

“Not enough women on the road to satisfy the White Wolf? Rather have this ugly mug in bed?”

Geralt knows better than to attempt to compliment Eskel, so he scoffs instead.  
“I don’t have to look at you while I’m at it.”

Eskel laughs again, stands up, and looks at him good-humoredly. 

“True enough.”

There is a moment's stillness before Eskel grabs him by the jaw and backs him into the corner of the room. Geralt goes willingly. There is no heat in the motion, only calm familiarity. His back hits the stone wall with a gentle thud. 

Eskel has Geralt’s chin in a soft but firm grip. He runs a finger over the smooth surface of his jaw. 

Geralt stands motionless under Eskel’s scrutiny. There is some tension in the air, something waiting to snap under the pressure. Or just an approaching storm, Geralt thinks. Dark clouds are gathering above the mountain range. 

"You've gotten better at shaving yourself," Eskel says. His voice is like gravel, and he smells of earth and dried leaves. He is right; Geralt's hands are more careful now, leaving no small nicks or patches of stubble behind. He admits as much out loud. 

“Had someone teach me.” 

“That bard friend of yours?” Eskel asks, always just a little too clever. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

His hand still lingers on Geralt’s jaw and he has him crowded against the back wall of the keep. It’s not uncomfortable; it never is with Eskel. Geralt remembers the first few weeks after the Trial of the Dreams, when his newly reshaped eyes had made even a candle burn like the sun. He tried to pretend it didn’t hurt, but Eskel always sat between him and every source of light, stoically caring in his own way. If anyone ever commented on the habit, he would always come up with some excuse about how Geralt always hogged the warm spots next to the fire, or how he needed the light to read.

Even now he is warm and _home_ , even with the years of distance and the still raw scars twisting his familiar face into a mockery of its former self. 

“Not a friend,” Geralt mumbles, defiant only for the sake of being defiant. He hasn’t believed that for some time now. Eskel, who knows him from the roots of his white hair to the calluses on his hands, has no reason to believe him either. 

“No?” Eskel asks mirthfully “That why you dragged the boy through half of Rinde to save his ass?” Geralt huffs in frustration. It was a mistake to tell the man about the whole mess. Of course he would remember it now.

“I don’t let innocent people die, Eskel.” 

“I know you don’t.” The hand on his face softens up. There is a thoughtful look on Eskel’s face.

“Did he give you more than a shave?” 

“No.”

Eskel looks at him, unmoving.

“Did you want him to?” he asks. 

Geralt closes his eyes, breathes in deep, breathes out. 

“Yes.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt wants.

“Sit still, you impetuous man.”  
Geralt grunts, shifting. The wooden stool beneath him creaks under his weight.  
“Sit. Still. I have a knife at your throat.”  
Geralt tries the best he can, but the stool is too small for his hulking form and Jaskier is dressed down to a light shift that really leaves nothing to the imagination. The room is too warm and Geralt wants nothing more than to lie down and never have another thought again. His blood is still thrumming with the potions he had earlier, making his heart beat too fast and his senses too sharp. He can hear a sparrow building a nest in a nearby tree and some couple down the street doing their... marital duties.  
“Thirsty,” he grits out.  
Jaskier sighs and pulls back to offer him his waterskin to drink from.  
The water eases the nausea a bit, and he bats his eyes open to see Jaskier looking at him with a mix of concern and confusion. Geralt has another sip of water and averts his gaze, deciding to look outside instead. The alder growing in the yard behind the inn is green with leaves and the sky is taking on hues of lilac and gold in the sunset.  
“Are you done now?” Jaskier asks, shaking him out of the moment. He grunts his assent.Jaskier reaches out once more, tilting his head back carefully. He has a stylish razor in his hand, with his name carved into it in an elegant gold accent.  
The blade seems to fit perfectly in his delicate hands, and Jaskier wields it with the same confidence he plucks the strings on his lute, or sweet-talks the innkeeper to give them a discount on the room.  
“You really need to take better care of your appearance,” Jaskier says, sliding the blade carefully over his jaw. “It would be easier to convince people you aren’t the brute they say you are if you actually looked the part, you know.”  
Geralt hums as an answer, already lulled into a calm by the repetitive motion.  
“Don’t really care what they think of me as long as they don’t get in my way.”  
“Evidently."

Jaskier smells... nice, for the lack of a better word. There are hints of rosemary, bay leaf and something floral on his skin as he leans in closer to tend to the rough patch of hair beneath his jaw. It is a scent he has come to associate with the Jaskier. It is the oil he also likes to pour in Geralt’s baths.  
He wonders, briefly, if Jaskier thinks about it. Does he consciously add the oil knowing Geralt will smell like him? Does it feel as intimate to him as it does to Geralt? Or is it perhaps just the only thing he has on him?  
“There we go,” Jaskier says, pleased with himself. He puts away his razor carefully before grasping Geralt by the shoulders and turning him towards the empty fruit plate he has propped up against the wall as a makeshift mirror.  
Geralt tries to appreciate his meticulous work, but his eyes linger just a little too long on the tender hands that hold his shoulders in a firm grasp.  
He hums in response. Jaskier seems pleased; he has always been good at reading Geralt’s silence like an open book.  
His headache is finally easing up. The sounds from outside are toning down a bit and it seems as if most of the inn’s patrons have retired for the evening. The last of the sun’s rays bathe Jaskier in gold where he stands at the window. He’s writing something in the notebook he keeps on him, making use of what little light there is left.  
Geralt lies down on the lone bed they have secured for the evening. It’s not unusual for them to sleep together; Geralt has plenty of experience huddling up with his fellow witchers for warmth, and he gets the impression that Jaskier wakes up in an occupied bed more often than not.  
The mattress shifts when Jaskier climbs in, though not enough to make any real dent, compared to Geralt’s body weight. It always catches him off guard, how small he is.  
Geralt fears he will roll over and smother the man in his sleep, with how closely he slots himself alongside his body. Hands, light as bird bones, tuck themselves against his back.  
Jaskier isn’t a graceful sleeper by any means; he crowds into Geralt’s space, then pushes him away when he gets too hot. He talks in his sleep sometimes, never anything in particular, just snippets of conversations. Sometimes he says Geralt’s name and Geralt freezes for a split second, waiting for him to speak, but nothing ever follows.

After finally managing some actual sleep for a few hours, Geralt's eyes snap open the second the sky outside starts brightening. Jaskier has his arm in as firm a grip as the bard can muster. He is drooling on Geralt's undershirt. There are no rosy cheeks or pink plush lips, the way star stuck maidens and young lords describe him. His lashes are just average length. There are places where his persona is peeling off; his hair is slightly matted, skin on the dry side. He's developing an uneven tan from the days on the road. There is a light strip on his neck where his lute strap has shielded him from the sun. He looks normal, like any human, not the famous bard he likes to be.  
He turns away; this is not meant for him. He had once, in a moment of silent intimacy, asked about the way Yennefer sometimes stood, staring into the mirror but not really looking, shoulders hunched in an echo of… something. She had told him to go to sleep, stern but not unkind. People like Jaskier and Yennefer, Geralt thinks, do not want to be seen without them dictating how they are seen.  
Geralt sits up and makes to stand with a huff, but stops when Jaskier's hand on his arm tightens ever so slightly. He looks back. Jaskier yawns, frown, displeased by the early hour. Geralt loses himself in how intimate it feels, as if he is just a normal person who couldn't break Jaskier's spine like a twig. He wants nothing more than to peel the covers off, to rest his head on Jaskier’s sternum, feel his fingers in his hair and then perhaps, if he allows it, to-.  
"Do we have to go already?"  
-or perhaps he would sit on the floor, knees aching but it would feel right-  
"Yes. Get a move on."  
-or maybe he would lie beneath, warm thighs against his cheeks-.

"Wolf. Are you with me?"  
Geralt comes to with a jolt. The bath is cooling down, the wind howls on the battlements, the crows are fighting over food scraps, and Eskel has a hand on his calf, rubbing a small scar absently with his thumb. He is sitting opposite to him in the bath. They carried the tub to a more remote room, so Vesemir didn't have to walk in on their shenanigans should he come inside earlier than expected.  
Geralt nods quietly.  
"You slept for a while," Eskel informs him.  
"It happens."  
"You sleeping? Judging by those bags under your eyes, you're lying."  
Geralt swats some water at him, which Eskel takes in stride. Had it been Lambert he would probably be halfway across the room already, hands around his throat, and isn't that a thought.  
Geralt frowns. The nervous energy is back again. It's like scratching a mosquito bite; the more you do it, the worse it gets.  
Geralt creeps forward as much as he can in the bath, slots himself between Eskel’s legs carefully, bows his head.  
"Again?"  
"Yeah."  
Eskel sighs and pushes him back so he can stand up and step onto the stone floor beneath.  
"Not in the bath. Grab yourself some clean clothes and come meet me in the courtyard. Then we'll see."  
Geralt gets out of the bath, resists shaking himself off like a wet dog. He does as he is told, mind still half way between now and then.  
The chill winter air snaps him back to reality. Vesemir has planted himself high above them on the battlements like a bird of prey. Eskel stands opposite of him, no sword in hand. So this is what it’s going to be. He raises his fists to eye level. And waits.


End file.
